CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\1onographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


§1 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  Microrsproductioni  /  Inititut  Canadian  da  mieroraproductions  hiatoriquas 


1995 


Ttchnical  and  Bibliographic  Notn  /  Notts  tachniqun  ct  bibliographiquM 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtax*  the  best  original 
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may  be  bibliograpnically  unique,  which  may  alter  any 
of  the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming,  art 
checked  below. 


D 
D 

n 
n 
n 
n 
n 

D 


Colobred  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


D 


n 


Covers  d 

Couverture  endommagte 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminattd/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculia 

Cover  title  mnsing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  m  ips/ 

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Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bicue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
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along  interior  margin/ 

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within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have 
been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  appiraissent  dans  le  teste, 
mais,  lorsquc  cela  etait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pes  iti  filmets. 


Additional  comments:/ 
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Transparence 

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Qualite  inegale  de  I'impression 

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D 


Includes  index(es)/ 
Comprend  un  (des)  index 

Title  on  header  taken  from:  / 
Le  titre  de  I'en-tftte  provient: 


□  Title  page  of  issue/ 
Page  de  litre  de  (a  li« 


□  Caption  of 
Titre  de  de 


issue/ 
depart  de  ta  livraison 


D 


Masthead/ 

Ganerique  (ptriodiqun)  de  la  livraison 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  f  ilme  au  taux  de  reduction  indique  ci-dessous. 

lOX  14X  18X 


7 


20X 


22X 


Th«  copy  filmad  h«r«  has  ba«n  raproducad  thank* 
to  tha  ganarotity  0<'. 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  filmi  <ut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
gintrositt  da: 

Blbliotheque  nationale  du  Canada 


Tha  imaga*  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
possibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spscification*. 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  ttt  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  eompta  tanu  da  la  condiiion  at 
da  la  nattatA  da  I'axamplaira  filmA.  at  an 
conformit*  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  eovar*  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  andlng  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  imprsa- 
sion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  approprlats.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  filnoad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  imprss- 
sion.  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  imprassion. 


Las  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  ast  imprimia  sont  filmas  an  commancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnitra  paga  qui  compona  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  lacond 
plat,  salon  Is  cas.  Tous  laa  autras  axan^plairas 
originaux  sont  film*s  an  commancant  par  la 
pramiArs  paga  qui  compona  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarmi  lant  par 
la  darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficho 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  -^»  Imaaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  V  Imaaning  "END"), 
whichsvar  appliaa. 


Un  daa  symbolas  suivants  sppsraitra  sur  la 
darnitra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  — ^  signifis  "A  SUIVRE '.  la 
symbols  V  signifia  "FIN". 


Maps,  platss.  charts,  ate  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axposura  ara  filmad 
baginning  In  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrats  tha 
mathod: 


Las  cartas,  planchas,  tablaaux,  ate,  pauvant  etre 
filmto  A  das  taux  da  reduction  difftrants. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  itra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clicht,  il  ast  film*  i  partir 
da  I'angla  supiriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  *  droits. 
at  da  haut  an  bas,  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  n*cassaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
llluatrant  la  m*thoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

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1.6 


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S"^  ?°'^!'?='*''    "^^^    *°'''  '*W9        USA 

r.^S  V'^'S)  *82  -  0^00  -  Pnone 

SS  ("6)   288  -  5989  -  ^a. 


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GILBERT  PARKER 


I 


ne  GOING  of 
THE  WHITE  SWAN 


'No,   no — this!*   the  priest  said." 


[p-  56] 


The  GOING  of 
THE  WHITE  SWAN 


BY 


GILBERT  PARKER 


I 


NEW  YORK 
D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 

MCMXII 


c 


Copyright,  1913,  bv 
GILBERT    PARKER 

Copyright,  1895.  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

Copyright,  iSqs.  by  Stone  and  Kimball 
Copyright,  1898,  by  The  Macmillan  Company 


THE  GOING  OF  THE 
WHITE  SWAN 


WHY    don't    she    come    back, 
father?" 
The  man  shook  his  head,  his  hand 
fumbled    with    the    wolfskin    robe 
covering  the  child,  and  he  made  no 
reply. 

"She'd  come  if  she  knew  I  was 
hurted,  wouldn't  she?" 

The  father  nodded,  and  then 
turned  restlessly  toward  the  door, 
as  though  expecting  some  one.    The 


THE  GOING  OF 

look  was  troubled,  and  the  pipe  he 
held  was  not  alight,  though  he  made 
a  pretense  of  smoking. 

"Suppose  the  wildcat  had  got 
me,  she'd  be  sorry  when  she  comes, 
wouldn't  she?" 

There  was  no  reply  yet,  save  by 
gesture,  the  language  of  primitive 
man;  but  the  big  body  shivered  a 
little,  and  the  uncouth  hand  felt  for 
a  place  in  the  bed  where  the  lad's 
knee  made  a  lump  under  the  robe. 
He  felt  the  little  heap  tenderly,  but 
the  child  winced. 

"S-sh,  but  that  hurts!  This  wolf- 
skin's most  too  much  on  me,  isn't  it, 
father?" 

Th''  man  softly,  yet  awkwardly, 
lifted  the  robe,  folded  it  back,  and 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 


slowly  uncovered  the  knee.  The 
leg  was  worn  away  almost  to  skin 
and  bone,  but  the  knee  itself  was 
swollen  with  inflammation.  He 
bathed  it  with  some  water,  mixed 
with  vinegar  and  herbs,  then  drew 
down  the  deer-skin  shirt,  and  did  the 
same  with  the  child's  shoulder. 
Both  shoulder  and  knee  bore  the 
marks  of  teeth, — where  a  huge  wild- 
cat had  made  havoc — and  the  body 
had  long  red  scratches. 

Presently  the  man  shook  his  head 
sorrowfully,  and  covered  up  the 
small  disfigured  frame  again,  but 
this  time  with  a  tanned  skin  of  the 
caribou.  The  flames  of  the  huge 
woo  '^re  dashed  the  walls  and  floor 
with  a  velvety  red  and  black,  and 
3 


THE  GOING  OF 

the  large  iron  kettle,  bought  of  the 
Company  at  Fort  Sacrament,  puffed 
out  geysers  of  steam. 

The  place  was  a  low  hut  with 
parchment  windows  and  rough 
mud-mortar  lumped  between  the 
logs.  Skins  hung  along  two  sides, 
with  bullet-holes  and  knife-holes 
showing:  of  the  great  gray  wolf,  the 
red  puma,  the  bronze  hill-lion,  the 
beaver,  the  bear,  and  the  sable;  and 
in  one  corner  was  a  huge  pile  of 
them.  Bare  of  the  usual  comforts 
as  the  room  was,  it  had  a  sort  of  re- 
finement also,  joined  to  an  inexpress- 
ible loneliness,  you  could  scarce 
have  told  how  or  why. 

"Father,"  said  the  boy,  his  face 
pinched  with  pain  for  a  moment,  "it 
4 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

hurts  so,  all  over,  every  once  in  a 
w^hile." 

His  fingers  caressed  the  leg  just 
below  the  knee. 

"Father,"  he  suddenly  added, 
"what  does  it  mean  when  you  hear 
a  bird  sing  in  the  middle  of  the 
night?" 

The  woodsn  .i  looked  down  anx- 
iously into  the  boy's  face.  "It  hasn't 
no  meaning,  Dominique.  There 
ain't  such  a  thing  on  the  Labrador 
Heights  as  a  bird  singin'  in  the 
night.  That's  only  in  warm  coun- 
tries where  there's  nightingales.  So 
— bien  sur!" 

The  boy  had  a  wise,  dreamy,  spec- 
ulative look. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  was  a  nightin- 
5 


THE  GOING  OF 


gale — it  didn't  sing  like  any  I  ever 
heard." 

The  look  of  nervousness  deepened 
in  the  woodman's  face.  "What  did 
it  sing  like,  Dominique?" 

"So  it  made  you  shiver.  You 
wanted  it  to  go  on,  and  yet  you 
didn't  want  it.  It  was  pretty,  but 
you  felt  as  if  something  was  going 
to  snap  inside  of  you." 

"When  did  you  hear  it,  my  son?" 

"Twice  last  night — and — and  I 
guess  it  was  Sunday  the  other  time. 
I  don't  know,  for  there  hasn't  been 
no  Sunday  up  here  since  mother 
went  away — has  there?" 

"Mebbe  not." 

The  veins  were  beating  like  live 
6 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 


cords  in  the  man's  throai  and  at  his 
temples. 


'Twas  just  the 


Fathe 


same 

Corraine  bein'  here,  when  mother 
had  Sunday,  wasn't  it?" 

The  man  made  no  reply;  but  a 
gloom  drew  down  his  forehead,  and 
his  lips  doubled  in  as  though  he  en- 
dured physical  pain.  He  got  to  his 
feet  and  paced  the  floor.  For  weeks 
he  had  listened  to  the  same  kind  of 
talk  from  this  wounded,  and,  as  he 
thought,  dying  son,  and  he  was  get- 
ting less  and  less  able  to  bear  it. 
The  boy  at  nine  years  of  age  was,  in 
manner  of  speech,  the  merest  child, 
but  his  thoughts  were  sometimes 
large  and  wise.  The  only  white 
7 


THE  GOING  OF 
child  within  a  compass  of  a  hun- 
dred miles  or  so;  the  lonely  life  of 
the  hills  and  plains,  so  austere  in 
winter,  so  melted  to  a  sober  joy  in 
summer;  listening  to  the  talk  of  his 
elders    at    camp-fires    and    on    the 
hunting-trail,  when,  even  as  an  in- 
fant  almost,    he   was    swung    in    a 
blanket  from  a  tree  or  was  packed 
in  the  torch-crane  of  a  canoe;  and 
more  than  all,  the  care  of  a  good, 
loving—if   passionate— little    moth- 
er: all  these  had  made  him  far  wiser 
than  his  years.     He  had  been  hours 
upon   hours   each   day  alone  with 
the  birds,  and  squirrels,  and  wild 
animals,  and  something  of  the  keen 
scent   and    instinct  of   the    animal 
world  hid  entered  into  his  bodv  and 
8 


THE  WHITF  SWAN 

brain,  so  that  he  felt  what  he  could 
not  understand. 

He  saw  that  he  had  worried  his 
inher,  and  it  troubled  him.  He 
thought  of  something. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  "let  me  have 
it." 

A  smile  struggled  for  life  in  the 
hunter's  face,  a.«  he  turned  to  the 
wall  and  took  down  the  skin  of  a 
silver  fox.  He  held  it  on  his  palm 
for  a  moment,  looking  at  it  in  an 
interested,  satisfied  way,  then  he 
brought  it  over  and  put  it  into  the 
child's  hands;  and  the  smile  now 
shaped  itself,  as  he  saw  an  eager 
pale  face  buried  in  the  soft  fur 

"Good I  good!"  he  said  involunta- 
rily. 

9 


THE  GOING  OF 


"Bon!  bon!"  said  the  boy's  voice 
from  the  fur,  in  the  language  of 
his  mother,  who  added  a  strain  of 
Indian  blood  to  her  French  ances- 
try. 

The  two  sat  there,  the  man  half- 
kneeling  on  the  low  bed,  and  strok- 
■  -g  the  fur  very  gently.  It  could 
scarcely  be  thought  that  such  pride 
should  be  spent  on  a  little  pelt,  by 
a  mere  backwoodsman  and  his  nine- 
year-old  son.  One  has  seen  a  wom- 
an fingering  a  splendid  necklace, 
her  eyes  fascinated  by  the  bunch  of 
warm,  deep  jewels — a  light  not  of 
mere  vanity,  or  hunger,  or  avarice 
in  her  face — only  the  love  of  the 
beautiful  thing.  But  this  was  an 
animal's   skin.     Did   they   feel    the 

10 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

animal  underneath  it  yet,  giving  it 
beauty,  life,  glory? 

The  silver-fox  skin  is  the  prize  of 
the  lorth,  and  this  one  was  of  the 
boy's  own  harvesting.  While  his 
father  was  away  he  saw  the  fox 
creeping  by  the  hut.  The  joy  of  the 
hunter  seized  him,  and  guided  his 
eye  over  the  sights  of  his  father's 
rifle  as  he  rested  the  barrel  on  the 
windowsill,  and  the  animal  was  his! 
Now  his  finger  ran  into  the  hole 
made  by  the  bullet,  and  he  gave 
a  little  laugh  of  modest  triumph. 
Minutes  passed  as  they  studied,  felt, 
and  admired  the  skin,  the  hunter 
prcud  of  his  son,  the  son  alive  with 
a  primiti  e  passion,  which  inflicts 
sufl^ering  to  get  the  beautiful  thing. 


I  ■ 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

Perhaps  the  tenderness  as  well  as  the 
wild  passion  of  the  animal  gets  into 
the  hunter's  blood,  and  tips  his  fin- 
gers at  times  with  an  exquisite  kind- 
ness—as one  has  noted  in  a  lion 
fondling  her  young,  or  in  tigers  ae 
they  sport  upon  the  sands  of  the  des- 
ert. This  boy  had  seen  his  father 
shoot  a  splendid  moose,  and,  as  it  lay 
dying,  drop  down  and  kiss  it  in  the 
neck  for  sheer  love  of  its  handsome- 
ness. Death  is  no  insult.  It  is  the 
law  of  the  primitive  world— war, 
and  love  in  war. 


II 

'pHEY  sat  there  for  a  long  time, 
not  speaking,  each  busy  in  his 
own  way:  the  boy  full  of  imagin- 
ings,   strange,    half-heathen,    half- 
angelic  feelings;  the  man  roaming 
Jn    that    savage,    romantic,    super- 
stitious atmosphere  which  belongs  to 
the  north,  and  to  the  north  alone 
At  last  the  boy  lay  back  on   his 
P'llow,  his  finger  still  in  the  bullet- 
hok  of  the  pelt.    His  eyes  closed, 
and  he  seemed  about  to  fall  asleep 
but  presently  looked  up  and  whis- 
13 


I  I 


THE  GOING  OF 

pered:    "I  haven't  said  my  prayers, 
have  I?" 

The  father  shook  his  head  in  a  sort 
of  rude  confusion. 

"I  can  pray  out  loud  if  I  want  to, 
can't  I?" 

"Of  course,  Dominique."  The 
man  shrank  a  little. 

"I  forget  a  good  many  times,  but 
I  know  one  all  right,  for  I  said  it 
when  the  bird  was  singing.  It  isn't 
one  out  of  the  book  Father  Cor- 
raine  sent  mother  by  Pretty  Pierre; 
it's  one  she  taught  me  out  of  her 
own  head.  P'r'aps  I'd  better  say 
it." 

"P'r'aps,  if  you  want  to."  The 
voice  was  husky. 

The  boy  began : 
14 


*.l«- .  Al 


-.'IM^J:^:^ 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"O  Bon  Jesu,  who  died  to  save  us 
from  our  sins,  and  to  lead  us  to  Thy 
country,  where  there  is  no  cold,  nor 
hunger,  nor  thirst,  and  where  no  one 
is  afraid,  listen  to  Thy  child.  .  .  . 
When   the   great  winds   and   rains 
come  down  from  the  hills,  do  not 
let   the   floods   drown    us,   nor  the 
woods  cover  us,  nor  the  snow-slide 
bury  us,  and  do  not  let  the  prairie- 
fires    burn    us.     Keep    wild    beasts, 
from  killing  us   in   our  sleep,   and 
give  us  good  hearts  that  we  may  not 
kill  them  in  anger." 

His  finger  twisted  involuntarily 
into  the  bullet-hole  in  the  pelt,  and 
he  paused  a  moment. 

"Keep  us  from  getting  lost,  O 
Bon  Jesu." 

15 


A 


^^^^^m^. 


u 


THE  GOING  OF 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  his  eyes 
opened  wide,  and  he  said: 

"Do  you  think  mother's  lost,  fa- 
ther?" 

A  heavy  broken  breath  came  from 
the  father,  and  he  replied  haltingly: 
"Mebbe— mebbe  so." 

Dominique's  eyes  closed  again. 
"I'h  make  up  some,"  he  said  slowly: 
"And  if  mother's  lost,  O  Bon  Jesu, 
bring  her  back  again  to  us,  for  every- 
thing's going  wrong." 

Again  he  paused,  then  went  on 
with  the  prayer  as  it  had  been  taught 
him. 

"Teach  us  to  hear  Thee  whenever 

Thou  callest,  and  to  see  Thee  when 

Thou  visitest  us,  and  let  the  blessed 

Mary  and  all  the  saints  speak  oftei 

i6 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 
to  Thee  for  us.    O  Christ,  hear  us. 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  us.    Christ, 
have  mercy  upon  us.    Amen." 

Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he 
lay  back,  and  said:  "I'll  go  to  sleep 
now,  I  guess." 


'0 


'I  ■!•'■ 


Ill 

'T^HE  man  sat  for  a  long  time 
■*■  looking  at  the  pale,  shining 
face,  at  the  blue  veins  showing  pain- 
fully dark  on  the  temples  and  fore- 
head, at  the  firm  little  white  hand, 
which  was  as  brown  as  a  butternut 
a  few  weeks  before.  The  longer  he 
sut,  the  deeper  did  his  misery  sink 
into  his  soul.  His  wife  had  gone  he 
knew  not  where,  his  child  was  wast- 
ing to  death,  and  he  had  for  his 
sorrows  no  inner  consolation.  He 
had  ever  had  that  touch  of  mystical 
imagination  inseparable  from  the 
iS 


l|l||^R^pWJli>- 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 
far  north,  yet  he  had  none  of  that  re- 
ligious belief  which  swallowed  up 
natural  awe  and  turned  it  to  the  re- 
fining of  life,  and  to  the  advantage 
of  a  man's  soul.    Now  it  was  forced 
in  upon  him  that  his  child  was  wiser 
than  himself;  wiser  and  safer.     His 
life  had  been  spent  in  the  wastes, 
with  rough  deeds  and  rugged  habits, 
and  a  youth  of  hardship,  danger,  and 
almost  savage  endurance  had  given 
him  a  half-barbarian  temperament, 
which  could  strike  an  angry  blow  at 
one  moment  and  fondle  to  death  at 
the  next. 

When  he  married  sweet  Lucette 

Barbond  his  religion  reached  little 

farther  than  a  belief  in  the  Scarlet 

Hunter  of  the   Kimash   Hills  and 

19 


( 


if 


THE  GOING  OF 

those  voices  that  could  be  heard  call- 
ing in  the  night,  till  their  time  of 
sleep  be  past  and  they  should  rise 
and  reconquer  the  north. 

Not  even  Father  Corraine,  whose 
ways  were  like  those  of  his  Master, 
could  ever  bring  him  to  a  more 
definite  faith.  His  wife  had  at  first 
striven  with  him,  mourning  yet  lov- 
ing. Sometimes  the  savage  in  him 
had  broken  out  over  the  little  crea- 
ture, merely  because  barbaric  tyr- 
anny was  in  him — torture  followed 
by  the  passionate  kiss.  But  how  was 
she  philosopher  enough  to  under- 
stand the  cause  1 

When  she  fled  from  their  hut  one 
bitter  day,  as  he  roared  some  wild 
words  at  her,  it  was  because  her 

20 


(    f  .i 


ST^ 


t 


^£b-^  ^:!t     f-  f ''V^SM.-  <^ 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

nerves  had   all   been   shaken   from 
threatened  death  by  wild  beasts,  (of 
this    he    did    not   knew)    and    his 
violence  drove  her  mad.    She  had 
run  out  of  the  house,  and  on,  and 
on,  and  on— and  she  had  never  come 
back.    That   was   weeks    ago,    and 
there  had  been  no  word  nor  sign  of 
her  since.    The  man  was  now  busy 
with  it  all,  in  a  slow,  cumbrous  way. 
A   nature  more  to  be  touched  by 
things  seen  than  by  things  told,  his 
mind  was  being  awakened  in  a  mas- 
sive kind  of  fashion.     He  was  view- 
ing this  crisis  of  his  life  as  one  sees 
a  human  face  in  the  wide  searching 
light  of  a  great  fire.     He  was  rest- 
less, but  he  held  himself  still  by  a 
strong  effort,  not  wishing  to  disturb 

21 


•f( 


i( 


i ' 


THE  GOING  OF 

the  little  sleeper.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  retreat  farther  and  farther  back 
under  his  shaggy  brows. 

The  great  logs  in  the  chimney 
burned  brilliantly,  and  a  brass  cruci- 
fix over  the  child's  head  now  and 
again  reflected  soft  little  flashes  of 
light.  This  caught  the  hunter's  eye. 
Presently  there  grew  up  in  him  a 
vague  kind  of  hope  that,  somehow, 
this  symbol  would  bring  him  luck- 
that  was  the  way  he  put  it  to  him- 
self. He  had  felt  this— and  some- 
thing more — when  Dominique 
prayed.  Somehow,  Dominique's 
prayer  was  the  only  one  he  had  ever 
heard  that  had  gone  home  to  him, 
had  opened  up  the  big  sluices  of  his 
nature,  and  let  the  light  of  God  flood 

22 


•Afmmm^M'^  ^^i^f^^JT* 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

in.  No,  there  was  another:  the  one 
Lucette  made  on  the  day  that  they 
were  married,  when  a  wonderful 
timid  reverence  played  through  his 
hungry  love  for  her. 


IV 

TTOURS  passed.  All  at  once, 
•*■  ■■■  without  any  other  motion  or 
gesture,  the  boy's  eyes  opened  wide 
with  a  strange,  intense  look. 

"Father,"  he  said  slowly,  and  in  a 
kind  of  dream,  "when  you  hear  a 
sweet  horn  blow  at  night,  is  it  the 
Scarlet  Hunter  calling?" 

"P'r'aps.  Why,  Dominique?" 
24 


4 


x~mfi^:i.fj'-'-f.  ir^^iX'^^f^::^" 


TUF-   WHITF  SWAN 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  humor  the 
boy,  though  it  gave  him  strange 
aching  forebodings.  He  had  seen 
grown  men  and  women  with  these 
fancies— and  they  had  died. 

"I  heard  one  blowing  just  now, 
and  the  sounds  seemed  to  wave  over 
my  head.     P'r'aps  he's  calling  some 
one  that's  lost." 
"Mebbe." 

"And  I  heard  a  voice  singing — It 
wasn't  a  bird  to-night." 

"There  was  no  voice,  Domi- 
nique." 

"Yes,  yes."  There  was  some- 
thing fine  in  the  grave,  courteous 
certainty  of  the  lad.  "I  waked,  and 
you  were  sitting  there  thinking,  and 
I  shut  my  eyes  again,  and  I  heard 

25 


THE  GOING  OF 

the  voice.  I  remember  the  tu  se  and 
the  words." 

"What  were  the  words?'  lu 
spite  of  himself  the  hunter  felt 
awed. 

"I've  heard  mother  sing  them,  or 
something  most  like  them : 

"  'Why  does  the  fire  no  longer  burn? 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Why  does  the  tent-door  swing  outward? 

(I  have  no  home.) 
Oh,  let  me  breathe  hard  in  your  face! 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
Oh,  why  do  you  shut  your  eyes  to  me? 

(I  have  no  home.)'  " 

The  boy  paused. 

"Was  that  all,  Dominique?" 

"No,  not  all." 

"  'Let  us  make  friends  with  the  stars; 
(I  am  so  lonely.) 

26 


[       1 


X  .m 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

Give  me  your  hand,  I  will  hold  it. 

(I  have  no  home.) 
Let  us  go  hunting  together. 

(I  am  so  lonely.) 
We  will  sleep  at  God's  camp  to-night. 

(I  have  no  home.)'  " 

Dominique  did  not  sing,  but  re- 
cited the  words  with  a  sort  of  chant- 
ing inflection. 

"What  does  it  mean  when  you 
hear  a  voice  like  that,  father?" 

"I  don't  know.  Who  told— your 
mother— the  song?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose 
she  just  made  them  up— she  and 
God.  .  .  .  There!  There  it  is 
again?  Don't  you  hear  it— don't 
you  hear  it,  daddy?" 

"No,  Dominique,  it's  only  the  ket- 
tle singing." 

27 


THE  GOING  OF 


11 


"A  kettle  isn't  a  voice.  Daddy—" 
He  paused  a  little,  then  went  on, 
hesitatingly:  "I  saw  a  white  swan 
fly  through  the  door  over  your 
shoulder  when  you  came  in  to- 
night." 

"No,  no,  Dominique,  it  was  a 
flurry  of  snow  blowing  over  my 
shoulder." 

"But  it  looked  at  me  with  two 
shining  eyes." 

"That  was  two  stars  shining 
through  the  door,  my  son." 

"How  could  there  be  snow  flying 
and  stars  shining,  too,  father?" 

"It  was  just  drift-snow  on  a  light 
wind,    but   the    stars    were    shining 
above,  Dominique." 
28 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

The  man's  voice  was  anxious  and 
unconvincing,  his  eyes  had  a 
hungry,  haunted  look.  The  legend 
of  the  White  Swan  had  to  do  with 
the  passing  of  a  human  soul.  The 
Swan  had  come  in — would  it  go  out 
alone?  He  touched  the  boy's  hand 
— it  was  hot  with  fever;  he  felt  the 
pulse— it  ran  high;  he  watched  the 
face — it  had  a  glowing  light.  Some- 
thing stirred  within  him,  and  passed 
like  a  wave  to  the  farthest  course  of 
his  being.  Through  his  misery  he 
had  touched  the  garment  of  the 
Master  of  Souls.  As  though  a  voice 
said  to  him  there,  "Some  one  hath 
touched  me,"  he  got  to  his  feet,  and, 
with  a  sudden  blind  humility,  lit  two 

3  29 


THE  GOING  OF 


: 


candles,  and  placed  them  on  a  shelf 
in  a  corner  before  a  porcelain  fig- 
ure of  the  Virgin,  as  he  had  seen  his 
wife  do.  Then  he  picked  a  small 
handful  of  fresh  spruce  twigs  from 
a  branch  over  the  chimney,  and  laid 
them  beside  the  candles.  After  a 
short  pause  he  came  slowly  to  the 
head  of  the  boy's  bed.  Very  sol- 
emnly he  touched  the  foot  of  the 
Christ  on  the  cross  with  the  tips  of 
his  fingers,  and  brought  them  to  his 
lips  with  an  indescribable  reverence. 
After  a  moment,  standing  with  eyes 
fixed  on  the  face  of  the  crucified 
figure,  he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice: 

"Pardon,  bon  Jhu!  Sauves  man 
enfant!    Ne  me  laissez  pas  seul!" 

The  boy  looked  up  with  eyes 
30 


fH 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

again  grown  unnaturally  heavy,  and 
said: 

"Amen!  .  .  .  Bon    Jesu!  .  .  .  En- 
core/   Encore,  man  pere!" 


npHE  boy  slept.  The  father 
■■■  stood  still  by  the  bed  for  a 
time,  but  at  last  slowly  turned  and 
went  toward  the  fire. 

Outside,  two  figures  were  ap- 
proaching the  hut — a  man  and  a 
woman;  yet  at  first  glance  the  man 
might  easily  have  been  taken  for  a 
woman,  because  of  his  clean-shaven 
face,  of  the  long  black  robe  which 
he  wore,  and  because  his  hair  fell 
loose  on  his  shoulders. 

"Have  patience,  my  daughter," 
32 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 


said  the  man.  "Do  not  enter  till  I 
call  you.  But  stand  close  to  the 
door,  if  you  will,  and  hear  all." 

So  saying  he  raised  his  hand  as  in 
a  kind  of  benediction,  passed  to  the 
door,  and,  after  tapping  very  softly, 
opened  it,  entered,  and  closed  it  be- 
hind him— not  so  quickly,  however, 
but  that  the  woman  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  father  and  the  boy.  In  her 
eyes  there  was  the  divine  look  of 
motherhood. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house!"  said  the 
man  gently,  as  he  stepped  forward 
frcm  the  door. 

The  father,  startled,  turned 
shrinkingly  on  him,  as  though  he  had 
seen  a  spirit. 

"M'sim'    le    cure!"    he    said    in 
33 


&•: 


i  ^ 


THE  GOING  OF 

French,  w  th  an  accent  much  poorer 
than  that  of  the  priest,  or  even  of  his 
own  son.  He  had  learned  Frenc.i 
from  his  wife;  he  himself  was  Eng- 
lish. 

The  priest's  quick  eye  had  taken 
in  the  lighted  candles  at  the  little 
shrine,  even  as  he  saw  the  painfully 
changed  aspect  of  the  man. 

"The  wife  and  child,  Bagot?"  he 
asked,  looking  round.  "Ah,  the 
boy!"  he  added,  and  going  toward 
the  bed,  continued,  presently,  in  a 
low  voice:  "Dominique  is  ill?" 

Bagot  nodded,  and  then  answered: 
"A  wildcat  and  then  fever,  Father 
Corraine." 

The   priest   felt  the  boy's   pulse 
softly,  then  with   a  close   personal 
34 


i! 


l:;l 


■:#*? 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

look    he    spoke    hardly    above    his 
breath,  yet  distinctly,  too: 
"Your  wife,  Bagot?" 
"She  is  not  here,  m'sieu'."    The 
voice  was  low  and  gloomy. 
"Where  is  she,  Bagot?" 
"I  do  not  know,  m'sieu'." 
"When  did  you  see  her  last?" 
"Four  weeks  ago,  m'sieu'." 
"That    was    September,    this    is 
October — winter.    On    the    ranches 
they  let  their  cattle  loose  upon  the 
plains  in  winter,  knowing  not  where 
they  go,  yet  looking  for  them  to  re- 
turn in  the  spring.     But  a  woman — 
a  woman  and  a  wife— is  different. 
.  .  .  Bagot,  you  have  been  a  rough, 
hard   man,   and   you   have   been   a 
stranger  to  your  God,  but  I  thought 
35 


THE  GOING  OF 

you  loved  your  wife  and  child  I" 
The  hunter's  hands  clenched,  and 
a  wicked  light  flashed  up  into  his 
eyes;  but  the  calm,  benignant  gaze 
of  the  other  cooled  the  tempest  in 
his  veins.  The  priest  sat  down  on 
the  couch  where  the  child  lay,  and 
took  the  fevered  hand  in  his  own. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Bagot,  just 
there  where  you  are,  and  tell  me 
what  your  trouble  is,  and  why  your 
wife  is  not  here.  ...  Say  all 
honestly— by  the  name  of  the 
Christ  1"  he  added,  lifting  up  an  iron 
crucifix  that  hung  on  his  breast. 

Bagot  sat  down  on  a  bench  near 

the  fireplace,  the  light  playing  on 

his  bronzed,  powerful  face,  his  eyes 

shining  beneath  his  heavy  brows  like 

36 


\l 


i 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

two  coals.    After  a  moment  he  be- 
gan: 

"I  don't  know  how  it  started. 
I'd  lost  a  lot  of  pelts— stolen  they 
were,  down  on  the  Child  o'  Sin 
River.  Well,  she  was  hasty  and 
nervous,  like  as  not— she  always  was 
brisker  and  more  sudden  than  I  am. 
I— I  laid  my  powder-horn  and 
whiskey-flash— up  there  1" 

He  pointed  to  the  little  shrine  of 
the  Virgin,  where  now  his  candles 
were  burning.  The  priest's  grave 
eyes  did  not  change  expression  at  all, 
but  looked  out  wisely,  as  though  he 
understood  everything  before  it  was 
told. 

Bagot  continued:  "I  didn't  notice 
it,  but  she   had   put  some   flowers 
37 


ff 


THE  GOING  OF 

there.  She  said  something  with  an 
edge,  her  face  all  snapping  angry, 
threw  the  things  down,  and  called 
me  a  heathen  and  a  wicked  heretic 
—and  I  don't  say  now  but  she'd  a 
right  to  do  it.  But  I  let  out  then, 
for  them  stolen  pelts  was  rasping 
me  on  the  raw.  I  said  something 
pretty  rough,  and  made  as  if  I  was 
goin'  to  break  her  in  two — just 
fetched  up  my  hands,  and  went  like 
this!—" 

With  a  singular  simplicity  he 
made  a  wild  gesture  with  his  hands, 
and  an  animal-like  snarl  came  from 
his  throat.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
priest  with  the  honest  intensity  of  a 
boy. 

"Yes,   that  was  what  you  did— 
38 


;- 


-■^^Mm 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

what  was   it  you  laij  which   was 
'pretty  rough'?" 

There  was  a  slight  hesitation,  then 
came  the  reply: 

"I  said  there  was  enough  powder 
spilt  on  the  floor  to  kill  all  the 
priests  in  heaven." 

A  fire  suddenly  shot  up  into  Fa- 
ther Corraine's  face,  and  his  lips 
tightened  for  an  instant,  but  pres- 
ently he  was  as  before,  and  he 
said: 

"How  that  will  face  you  one  day, 
Bagot!    Go  on.    What  else?" 

Sweat  began  to  break  out  on 
Bagot's  face,  and  he  spoke  as  though 
he  were  carrying  a  heavy  weight  on 
his  shoulders,  low  and  brokenly. 

"Then  I  said,  'And  if  virgins  has 
39 


J  ^ 

14 


' 


THE  GOING  OF 

it    so    fine,    why    didn't    you    stay 

one?' " 

"Blasphemer!"  said  the  priest  in 
a  stern,  reproachful  voice,  his  face 
turning  a  little  pale,  and  he  brought 
the  crucifix  to  his  lips.  "To  the 
mother  of  your  child— shame  1 
What  more?" 

"She  threw  up  her  hands  to  her 
ears  with  a  wild  cry,  ran  out  of  the 
house,  down  the  hills,  and  away.  I 
went  to  the  door  and  watched  her 
as  long  as  I  could  see  her,  and  waited 
for  her  to  come  back— but  she  never 
did.  I've  hunted  and  hunted,  but  I 
can't  find  her."  Then,  with  a  sud- 
den thought,  "Do  you  know  any- 
thing of  her,  m'sieu'?" 
The  priest  appeared  not  to  hear 
40 


«l 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

the  question.  Turning  for  a  mo- 
ment toward  the  boy,  who  now  was 
in  a  deep  sleep,  he  looked  at  him 
intently.     Presently  he  spoke. 

"Ever  since  I  married  you  and 
Lucette  Barbond  you  have  stood  in 
the  way  of  her  duty,  Bagot.  How 
well  I  remember  that  first  day  when 
you  knelt  before  me!  Was  ever  so 
sweet  and  good  a  girl — with  her 
golden  eyes  and  the  look  of  summer 
in  her  face,  and  her  heart  all  pure! 
Nothing  had  spoiled  her — you  can- 
not spoil  such  women — God  is  in 
their  hearts.  But  you,  what  have 
you  cared?  One  day  you  would 
fondle  her,  and  the  next  you  were  a 
savage — and  she,  so  gentle,  so 
gentle  all  the  time.  Then,  for  her 
41 


THE  GOING  OF 


J.fl 


t  ;!i 


n 


|H 


religion  and  the  faitii  of  her  child 
— she  has  fought  for  it,  prayed  for 
it,  suffered  for  it.  You  thought  you 
had  no  need  of  religion,  for  you  had 
so  much  happiness,  which  you  did 
not  deserve — that  was  it.  But  she 
— with  all  a  woman  suffers,  how  can 
she  bear  life — and  man — without 
God?  No,  it  is  not  possible.  And 
you  thought  you  and  your  few  super- 
stitions were  enough  for  her. — Ah, 
poor  fooll  She  should  worship 
youl  So  selfish,  so  small,  for  a  man 
who  knows  in  his  heart  how  great 
God  is.    You  did  not  love  her." 

"By  the  Heaven  above,  yes!"  said 
Bagot,  half  starting  to  his  feet. 

"Ah,  'by  the  Heaven  above,'  no! 
nor  the  child.  For  true  love  is  un- 
42 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

selfish  and  patient,  and  where  it  is 
the  stronger,  it  cares  for  the  wealier; 
but  it  was  your  wife  who  was  un- 
selfish, patient,  and  cared  for  you. 
Every  time  she  said  an  ave  she 
thought  of  you,  and  her  every 
thanks  to  God  had  you  therein. 
They  know  you  well  in  heaven, 
Bagot— through  your  wife.  Did 
you  ever  pray— ever  since  I  married 
you  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"An  hour  or  so  ago." 

Once     again     the     priest's     eyes 
glanced  towards  the  lighted  candles. 


VI 


PRESENTLY  he  said:  "You 
asked  me  if  I  had  heard  any- 
thing of  your  wife.  Listen,  and  be 
patient  while  you  listen.  .  .  .  Three 
weeks  ago  I  was  camping  on  the 
Sundust  Plains,  over  against  the 
Young  Sky  River.  In  the  morning, 
as  I  was  lighting  a  fire  outside  my 
tent,  my  young  Cree  Indian  with 
me,  I  saw  coming  over  the  crest  of 
44 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

a  landwave,  from  the  very  lips  of 
the  sunrise,  as  it  were,  a  band  of  In- 
dians. I  could  not  quite  make  them 
out.  I  hoisted  my  little  flag  on  the 
tent,  and  they  hurried  on  to  me.  I 
did  not  know  the  tribe — they  had 
come  from  near  Hudson's  Bay. 
They  spoke  Chinook,  and  I  could 
understand  them.  Well,  as  they 
came  near,  I  saw  that  they  had  a 
woman  with  them." 

Bagot  leaned  forward,  his  body 
strained,  every  muscle  tense.  "A 
woman!"  he  -jaid,  as  if  breathing 
gave  him  sorrow — "my  wife?" 

"Your  wife." 

"Quick!  Quick!  Go  on— oh,  go 
on,  m'sieu' — good  father." 

"She  fell  at  my  feet,  begging 
*  45 


THE  GOING  OF 


me  to  save  her.  ...  I  waved  her 
off." 

The  sweat  dropped  from  Bagot's 
forehead,  a  low  growl  broke  from 
him,  and  he  made  such  a  motion  as 
a  lion  might  make  at  its  prey. 

"You  wouldn't — wouldn't  save 
her — you  coward!"  He  ground 
the  words  out. 

The  priest  raised  his  palm  against 
the  other's  violence.  "Hush!  .  .  . 
She  drew  away,  saying  that  God  and 
man  had  deserted  her.  .  .  .  We 
had  breakfast,  the  chief  and  I. 
Afterwards,  when  the  chief  had 
eaten  much  and  was  in  good  humor, 
I  asked  him  where  he  had  got  the 
woman.  He  said  that  he  had  found 
her  on  the  plains — she  had  lost 
46 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

her  way.  I  told  him  then  that  I 
wanted  to  buy  her.  He  said  to  mc. 
'What  does  a  priest  want  of  a  wo- 
man?' I  said  that  I  wished  to 
give  her  back  to  her  husband.  He 
said  that  he  had  found  her,  and  she 
was  his,  and  that  he  would  marry 
her  when  they  reached  the  great 
camp  of  the  tribe.  I  was  patient. 
It  would  not  do  to  make  him  angry. 
I  wrote  down  on  a  piece  of  bark 
the  things  that  I  would  give  him  for 
her:  an  order  on  the  Company  at 
Fort  o'  Sin  for  shot,  blankets  and 
beads.     He  said  no." 

The  priest  paused.     Bagot's  face 
was  all  swimming  with  sweat,  his 
body  was  rigid,  but  the  veins  of  his 
neck  knotted  and  twisted. 
47 


hi 


THE  GOING  OF 

"For  the  love  of  God  go  on  I"  he 
said  hoarsely. 

"Yes,  for  the  love  of  God.  I 
have  no  money,  I  am  poor,  but  the 
Company  will  always  honor  my 
orders,  for  I  pay  sometimes  by  the 
help  of  le  hon  Jesu.  Well,  I  added 
some  things  to  the  list:  a  saddle,  a 
rifle,  and  some  flannel.  But  no,  he 
would  not.  Once  more  I  put  many 
things  down.  It  was  a  big  bill — it 
would  keep  me  poor  for  five  years. 
To  save  your  wife,  John  Bagot,  you 
who  drove  her  from  your  door, 
blaspheming  and  railing  at  such  as 
I.  ...  I  offered  the  things,  and 
told  him  that  was  all  I  could 
give.  After  a  little  he  shook  his 
head,  and  said  that  he  must  have  the 
48 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

woman  for  his  wife.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  add.  I  said,  'She  is 
white,  and  the  white  people  will 
never  rest  till  they  have  killed  you 
all,  if  you  do  this  thing.  The  Com- 
pany will  track  you  down.'  Then 
he  said,  'The  whites  must  catch 
me  and  fight  me  before  they 
kill  me.'  .  .  .  What  was  there  to 
do?" 

Bagot  came  near  to  the  priest, 
bending  over  him  savagely: 

"You  let  her  stay  with  them — you, 
with  hands  like  a  man!" 

"Hush,"  was  the  calm,  reproving 
answer.  "I  was  one  man,  they 
were  twenty." 

"Where  was  your  God  to  help 
you,  then?" 

49 


THE  GOING  OF 

"Her  God  and  mine  was  with 
me." 

Bagot's  eyes  blazed.  "Why 
didn't  you  offer  rum — rum?  They'd 
have  done  it  for  that — one — five — 
ten  kegs,  of  rum!" 

He  swayed  to  and  fro  in  his  ex- 
citement, yet  their  voices  hardly 
rose  above  a  hoarse  whisper  all  the 
time. 

"You  forget,"  answered  the  priest, 
"that  it  is  against  the  law,  and  that 
as  a  priest  of  my  order  I  am  vowed 
to  give  no  rum  to  an  Indian." 

"A  vow  I  A  vow  I  Son  of  God  I 
what  is  a  vow  beside  a  woman — my 
wife?" 

His  misery  and  his  rage  were 
pitiful  to  see. 

50 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"Perjure  my  soul  I  Oflfer  rum  I 
Break  my  vow  in  the  face  of  the 
enemies  of  God's  Church!  What 
have  you  done  for  me  that  I  should 
do  this  for  you,  John  Bagot?" 

"Coward!"  was  the  man's  despair- 
ing cry,  with  a  sudden  threatening 
movement.  "Christ  himself  would 
have  broke  a  vow  to  s^ve  her." 

The  grave,  kind  eyes  of  the  priest 
met  the  other's  fierce  gaze,  and 
quieted  the  wild  storm  that  was 
about  to  break. 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  teach 
my  Master?"  he  said,  solemnly. 
"What  would  you  give  Christ, 
Bagot,  if  He  had  saved  her  to  you?" 

The  man  shook  with  grief,  and 
tears  rushed  from  his  eyes,  so  sud- 
51 


i1  '4 


THE  GOING  OF 

denly  and  fully  had  a  new  emotion 
passed  through  him. 

"Give— give!"  he  cried,  "I 
would  give  twenty  years  of  my 
life!" 

The  figure  of  the  priest  stretched 
up  with  gentle  grandeur.  Hold- 
ing out  the  iron  crucifix,  he  said: 
"On  your  knees  and  swear  it,  John 
Bagotl" 

There  was  something  inspiring, 
commanding,  in  the  voice  and  man- 
ner, and  Bagot,  with  a  new  hope 
rushing  through  his  veins,  knelt 
and  repeated  his  words. 

The  priest  turned  to  the  door,  and 
called,  "Madame  Lucettel" 

The  boy,  hearing,  waked,  and  sat 
up  in  bed  suddenly. 
52 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"Mother!  mother!"  he  cried,  as 
the  door  flew  open. 

The  mother  came  to  her  hus- 
band's arms,  laughing  and  weeping, 
and  an  instant  after\vards  was  pour- 
ing out  her  love  and  anxiety  over 
her  child. 

Father  Corraine  now  faced  the 
man,  and  with  a  soft  exaltation  of 
voice  and  manner  said: 

"John  Bagot,  in  the  name  of 
Christ,  I  demand  twenty  years  of 
your  life — of  love  and  obedience 
of  God.  I  broke  my  vow;  I  per- 
jured my  soul;  I  bought  your  wife 
with  ten  kegs  of  rum." 

The  tall  hunter  dropped  again  to 
his  knees,  and  caught  the  priest's 
hand  to  kiss  it. 

S3 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"No,  no— this!"  the  priest  said, 
and  laid  his  iron  crucifix  against  the 
other's  lips. 


1 


VII 


■pvOMINIQUE'S  voice  came 
■*-'  clearly  through  the  room: 

"Mother,  I  saw  the  white  swan 
fly  away  through  the  door  when  you 
came  in." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  said, 

"there  was   no  white  swan."     But 

she  clasped  the  boy  to  her  breast 

protectingly,  and  whispered  an  ave. 

55 


THE  WHITE  SWAN 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,"  said  the 
voice  of  the  priest. 

And  there  was  peace — for  the 
child  lived,  and  the  man  has  loved, 
and  has  kept  his  vow,  even  unto  this 
day. 

For  the  visions  of  the  boy,  who 
can  know  the  divers  ways  in  which 
God  speaks  to  the  children  of  menl 


m 


THE  END 


NOVELS  BY  SIR  GILBERT  PARKER 

Tha  Going  of  the  White  S«.an 

The  SeeU  of  the  Mighty 

The  Trail  of  the  Sword 

Mrs.  Falchion 

D.  APPLKTON  AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 

